


destination makes it worth the while

by wokeupscully



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Fluff, Intensely Requited Love, M/M, Soulmark AU, Soulmates, campaign era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 02:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14299092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wokeupscully/pseuds/wokeupscully
Summary: Still, ‘the promise of America,’ Tommy thinks, is an audacious way to start a conversation with someone you don’t know, even if that someone is a Senate staffer.There are nights where he worries, improbably, that his soulmate is some conceited Republican, that he hears these words as part of some sanctimonious lecture. That he will fall in love with someone despite their penchant for having bad opinions, such as “Mitch McConnell is a good and reasonable Senator,” or “John Boehner understands what the American people want,” or even, God forbid, “George Bush is actually a good President.”





	destination makes it worth the while

**Author's Note:**

> huge thanks to anyone and everyone who listened to me rant and rave about this thing! y'all are the best! 
> 
> title from ABBA's "I Have A Dream"

_ The promise of America.  _

It’s the words ringing through Tommy’s head as he sits across from Senator Obama, full of determination and energy and belief, telling him why this is the place he belongs. It’s the feeling he’s chased as he searched for ways to make that difference, to uphold that promise. 

Tommy looks around the Senator’s office, drinking in every detail of it, of the space of the man who’s hired him, who’s bringing him closer to his dream. 

The daily reality of working in the Senate is everything and nothing like what Tommy expected it to be, but he learns. He takes in all the information he can, makes himself as useful as possible, an indispensable part of the team. 

He hears that phrase, sometimes, in Obama’s voice, the cadence and the imagery exactly right, even if the words don’t align themselves perfectly. Still, each time that feeling starts, the feeling of pride and of dedication and of love for this country, Tommy has to resist the need to rest his hand over his ribs, to run his fingers over the words that he knows are written there.

He’s not sure sometimes, if the words about this country that are scrawled on his chest in messy handwriting are what inspired him to be here, are what inspired him to love this country the way he does. Perhaps, he thinks, it is because he loves this country so much that the words are about America, that it only makes sense for the words his soulmate first speaks to him would be a mirror of exactly how he feels.

Still, _ ‘the promise of America,’ _ Tommy thinks, is an audacious way to start a conversation with someone you don’t know, even if that someone is a Senate staffer.

There are nights where he worries, improbably, that his soulmate is some conceited Republican, that he hears these words as part of some sanctimonious lecture. That he will fall in love with someone despite their penchant for having bad opinions, such as “Mitch McConnell is a good and reasonable Senator,” or “John Boehner understands what the American people want,” or even, God forbid, “George Bush is actually a good President.” 

Still, the feeling of those words, the feeling they stir up in him, makes him think that’s not likely. And, you don’t have to be a Republican to be conceited. 

Obama’s speeches keep inspiring him and the cadence and tone and emotion so familiar that one night he has the bizarre thought that perhaps the words inked across his ribs  _ do _ belong to Obama. Shaking his head at himself, he discards the idea as soon as it comes to mind. He knows what the first thing the Senator said to him was, he’ll never forget it, and it certainly wasn’t those words. 

That knowledge doesn't help the slight crush that he's developed on the Senator, the embarrassingly strong reactions to being told that he's doing a good job, that Obama is proud of him. It doesn't entirely quell the awe he feels watching him on the Senate floor, fighting for his vision of the America he wants to see.

There are whispers of an inevitable campaign and Obama has a speechwriter. Tommy hates the wriggle of jealousy in his gut, the way he chafes when all he hears about this new guy is praise. He’s curious about him, this dude his own age, being heralded as a mindreader, “the voice of Obama.” 

They don’t meet for a while, seemingly running in circles around each other as the campaign becomes a reality, not just a thing of whispers. Tommy spends more time out of the office than in it, doing research and press and research about press until he thinks maybe he dreams in ledes and sometimes wakes with his Blackberry in hand, nonsense typed on his phone. 

One such night, after looking down at his phone only to see a scribe, barely decipherable, about what he thinks is a newly proposed tax policy that he and Senator Obama had discussed earlier that day, Tommy groans, looking at the clock, dimly lit red numbers telling him it is just past one. Sighing, he pushes himself out of bed, resigned to the idea that he’s not going back to sleep any time soon. He pulls on his clothes, heads to the office. He’s not expecting anyone to be there, though in this line of work, it’s not out of the realm of possibility.

Perhaps some time alone, the office quiet in a way it could never be during the day, will help him figure out how to craft an email that is both respectful, polite, and still clearly conveys, “That question was entirely inappropriate and we are never going to answer it.” 

There are a few lights on that Tommy can see from the hall, but the quiet he’d been anticipating remains unbroken, his footfalls the only thing breaking the silence that had descended upon the usually hectic building. His progress on the statements he’s expected to give, requests for comment sitting in his inbox is slow, but he feels better to have done what he has. 

Reaching his arms behind his head, he stretches, noticing now that he’s leaning back that there is another light on the next door over that wasn’t on before, a faint click of fingers on a keyboard in what used to be perfect stillness. 

Curious, Tommy stands, heading to the door that he knows houses most of Obama’s communication team, expanded now that the campaign is gearing up to begin to the point of having their own section of the office. Leaning over a computer, a harsh white screen showing a document almost barely begun, is someone Tommy hasn’t met before. 

_ Young _ , Tommy thinks, but so is he. Cute, even if the buzzcut the guy is sporting may not be his best possible look. He hasn’t seemed to notice his entrance, lips moving silently, forming words that he isn’t putting on the page until he suddenly straightens up, fingers flying over the keys.

“ _ That’s the promise of America _ ,” he begins, reading his own words back to him, testing their mettle, unaware of Tommy, mouth gaping open behind him, “ _ the idea that we are responsible for ourselves, but that we also rise or fall as one nation; the fundamental belief that I am my brother's keeper; I am my sister's keeper. _ ” 

Tommy doesn’t know when he lifted his hand to rest over his ribs, to touch where those exact words are inscribed on his skin, but he can feel the heat of his touch there. Fantastically believes, just for a second, that he can feel the words burning on his skin, now that he’s heard them out loud after so long only reading them, hearing them only in his own voice.

He knows who this is, who this must be. Favreau, the wordsmith who crafts the masterpieces that Obama gives voice to. He’s not a Republican then, Tommy thinks wildly. But for all the times he’d thought about this as a kid, all the different plans he’d made and then discarded when he realized he was attracted men and then made again, this time with new quotes and new feelings, he hadn’t considered this: a late night in an office building with a man who seemingly still hasn’t yet realized he’s here.

A man who is not going on an arrogant screed, but a man so dedicated, so full of belief, that he is sitting at a computer, inches away from a screen, trying to find the right words to put in the right Senator’s mouth, trying to make him the President.

Before he truly thinks it through, Tommy opens his mouth, quoting some of the only words that had resonated with him in just the same way Jon’s had, “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.” 

If he could smack himself for saying that without Favreau seeing him do it, Tommy would. But he has finally turned around, eyes wide as they look Tommy over and it takes all the control in his body not to fidget away from his inspecting gaze. No amount of willpower stops the blush that he can feel creeping up his cheeks, his face burning with it. 

“What are you writing?” Tommy asks, both curious and desperate to get Jon to say anything so that he can stop thinking about the fact that he actually quoted a Revolutionary War spy at his soulmate instead of doing something like actually responding to what he’d said. 

Remarkably, Jon is the one to blush this time, and Tommy barely catches his answer when he mumbles, “Nomination acceptance.” 

Delighted laughter spills out of Tommy and he rushes to clarify, “Not- not seriously, of course, just- I’m thinking of what it should say, you know? Just trying to see what sticks.” Tommy can feel himself beaming, tries to say something but he’s cut off before he begins by Jon continuing, more sure of himself, a light in his eyes, “It helps, right, to know what to say now, if I’ve figured out what we want to say in the end. A consistent arc, a message.” 

“I’m Favs,” he says, as though only just realizing he hasn’t said so yet. 

“I figured that out already,” Tommy admits. “What you wrote was amazing.” His hand is still resting over his ribs, he realizes, and he drops it back to his side. “I’m Tommy.”

“Everyone here knows who you are,” Favs says easily, his smile wide enough that Tommy notices the gap in his teeth for the first time and is frustrated, for just a second, that anyone could pull it off as well as he does. “We haven’t met but you got pointed out to me the first day you got here.”

Blinking in surprise, Tommy just nods in response. He unthinkingly takes another step closer, wanting to be in Jon’s space. He wants to hear all the words Jon thinks up, all the bad ideas and the clunky sentences and threads that lead to nowhere. He wants to watch him distill it into something perfect, wants to hear the slight awe and the hint of pride that he’d heard in his voice earlier, reading something that he knows says exactly what he wants it to.

For Tommy, who feels wordless in this moment, that ability is something he wishes desperately to have. 

He’s closer than he was before, though whether he moved or Favs did, he couldn’t say. “There’s a diner,” he says, pointing with his left hand though frankly he has no idea what direction the diner is in relation to them right now. “We could grab a bite? Some coffee. Real coffee, not the burnt mess in the kitchen.”

Favs lights up, looking calmer, easier than he had not moments before. It makes some of the tension seep out of Tommy’s own shoulders to see it and they head out, falling into step with each other easily. Tommy gets caught up watching their legs move in time that he misses Jon speaking to him completely, only realizes he missed something when he touches his arm, an expectant look on face, awaiting an answer to a question he didn’t even hear.

“Maybe you should get some sleep,” Favs offers instead, his hand not falling from it’s position on Tommy’s arm, fingers coming to wrap around his wrist. He has beautiful fingers, he notes absently, feeling the fatigue that Jon must have seen in him clouding his brain, making it hard to think.

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” Tommy agrees reluctantly, checking his watch. If he heads home now, he can still sleep for another two hours before his alarm is scheduled to go off. He should sleep, but he stays where he is, standing on the sidewalk corner, not wanting to step away from the warmth of Jon standing close to him, to relinquish his touch. He doesn’t want to step away at all. 

Seeming to sense his hesitation, Favs takes a deep breath, offers, “I could- walk you home?” 

It’s a proposition that comes out awkwardly, for all the times Tommy is sure that it was successful, for the fact that it’s absolutely going to be successful again. “Yeah,” Tommy agrees, turning them around, away from the diner, to walk back to his apartment. 

The silence between them is comfortable but still Tommy tries to find something good to say, something clever. “I worried sometimes that you might be a Republican,” he admits, and it’s worth it for the look of total scandalization that crosses Jon’s face. “Hey, it was a legitimate concern! Not that many people say fanciful things like that,” Tommy’s hand comes up once more to brush across his ribcage absentmindedly, only realizing when Jon’s eyes track the movement, “to someone they don’t know. You could have been a sanctimonious prick.” 

The outrage on his face has melted into amusement and Jon is laughing, bright and clear-eyed and gap-toothed and Tommy’s chest feels warm when he thinks: I did that. I made him laugh this way. 

“You thought I was a Republican,” he repeats, shaking his head, laughter still in his voice. Drawing to a stop, his face changes as he asks, “Should I change that line?” horrified that maybe he sounds too pretentious. 

Tommy stares until he realizes that Jon actually seems to be asking, as though he hasn’t read those words over and over until he could see them with his eyes shut tight, until he could feel them in his soul. “No,” he says, voice sounding breathless. Clearing his throat, he keeps going, “Keep them.”

He reaches out and puts his hand on Jon’s elbow, wordlessly telling him that they’ve arrived at his place. “If it’s good enough for my ribs,” he teases, “surely it’s good enough for the future Democratic nominee for President.” Jon laughs again and that same warm feeling blooms in Tommy’s chest. Maybe he’ll just have to get used to that. 

His apartment is a mess; sharing with other staffers, other dudes in their twenties, means that there’s barely a clean surface to be found. But Tommy’s room, at least, is neat. Some papers strewn out of place, but otherwise presentable.

“Your ribs?” The question doesn’t make sense to Tommy until he remembers the comment he’d just made. “Where your hand was earlier?” Favs is looking right at him, eyes flitting down to where the words are written into his skin before coming back up to look at his face. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says, tongue darting out to wet his lips, not missing the way Jon’s eyes widen at it. “Do you wanna see?” 

He nods and Tommy slowly unbuttons his shirt, pink starting to bloom across his cheeks as he blushes, cursing the fact that he’d put on an undershirt as well. He’d been going into the office alone at one in the morning, who had he been hoping to impress? Tugging it over his head, he lets it drop to the floor, not caring in this moment. 

His blush has extended down to his chest and for a moment, Jon looks at the pink spreading across his skin before refocusing, finding the words branded across Tommy’s skin. Delicate fingers run over the words, tracing the letters, and Tommy thinks that he’s stopped breathing, that he doesn’t need air anymore now that he has this. 

“Where’s yours?” Tommy whispers, his voice not doing a good job of staying level. He needs to know, needs to see it. 

Jon’s eyes dart back up to his, a lazy smirk settling over his lips as he tilts his head in what could only be an invitation, and answers, “My hip.” 

Somehow at that Tommy’s body manages to find more blood that it can rush to his face, his cheeks burning from the fierce blush staining across them. He’s biting his lip hard enough that the pain registers in his mind and he can’t decide what he wants to look at: Jon’s fingers still splayed over his ribs, Jon’s hips, Jon’s eyes, or Jon’s lips, so close now that Tommy could lean down and kiss him so easily, could wipe that alluring smirk off his face. 

He very suddenly doesn’t know why he isn’t doing that already. 

Tommy hasn’t thought about what kissing Jon would be like, hasn’t had the chance. If this weren’t happening so quickly, if they hadn’t met only, fuck, maybe two hours ago, Tommy could have lost himself in thoughts of how soft Jon’s lips look, how they’re slightly parted even while he’s smirking, how good they’ll feel against his.

A few seconds consideration will do, Tommy supposes, hands leaving his sides to frame Jon’s face, pulling him in. 

The world seems to fall away, as though all of D.C., all of America, all of the world has gone quiet for them, for this moment where their lips brush. It's electricity running straight to their souls and the soft feeling of finding home all at once. 

Tommy bizarrely wishes in this moment that he had had time to pine over him, because Jon’s lips are softer and sweeter and more addicting than he ever could have imagined and only the few scant seconds of contemplation he did give it means that this doesn't feel like enough of a revelation.

He thinks that he’ll never get enough of him now, that he could spend the rest of his life here in this room, kissing Jon, and it wouldn't be long enough. He thinks that maybe he'll call in sick tomorrow, maybe they both will, and spend the whole day tangled up in each other. He thinks that no matter how long he has, and he has his whole life, he will never really get used to the intoxicating slide of his lips on his own, the maddening tease of the way Jon lightly scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip.

Tommy thinks that he's thinking too much.

Instead, he slides his fingers under the hem of Jon’s shirt, wanting skin. The kiss breaks and Tommy whines, but Favs just smiles at him like he understands perfectly. “You know,” he says, the smile on his face turning playful, a teasing light forming in his eye as he begins unbuttoning his shirt, “I usually make people at least take me to dinner first.”

Everything about his demeanor gives lie to that statement and Tommy leans in, so close to Jon that their lips brush when he answers, amusement and arousal mingling in his voice, “No, you don’t.” 

Kissing him before Favs can speak the rebuttal that he can see already forming on his lips, Tommy takes another step closer, pressing their chests together, skin on skin. The warmth of Jon’s body makes him moan and he sinks further into it, hands splayed wide over the expanse of Favs’ back, pressing him in tighter, their bodies flush together. Head spinning, Tommy can’t say how long they stay like that, standing in the middle of his room, hands roaming, heat building between them, reaching a near fever-pitch.

Only Jon’s fingers dancing along the edge of where Tommy’s pants meet skin brings him back to the present. They dip just inside and Tommy lets out an awkward noise that is far closer to a squeak than he'll ever admit to.

He bites his lip, feeling embarrassment creeping in as Favs pulls back to look at him, a gentle question written across his face. “Is this okay?” His hands are still on Tommy’s body, but they’re moving up his chest to cup his face, to make him look at where Tommy had been staring down at the floor.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and his voice comes out higher than he wants it to, higher than could ever be a casual response. He can see the skepticism and concern of Jon’s face and it settles him, trying again, “Yeah, it- it’s fine. I’ve - you know, I just-” 

The blush comes back, painting Tommy’s cheeks bright red as he finally manages, “I haven’t.” 

Silence settles between them for a second before he asks hesitantly, “Is that - is that okay?” He turns his face slightly, pressing a kiss to the palm of Jon’s hand. 

“You… waited,” he whispers, voice breathless with it. “You waited… for me.” Jon’s next inhale is unsteady, shaking. “Yeah, Tommy, that’s- that’s fine.” Jon kisses him and it’s messier than it was before, an edge of desperation bleeding through in the scrape of his teeth, the slide of his lips. “Fuck, that’s more than fine, Tommy. That’s so…”

What it is, Jon never finishes articulating, but the way he frantically drags his hands down Tommy’s back, pulling him in closer all over again, moaning into their kiss says it for him effectively enough. He feels his leg coming up, pushing between Tommy’s thigh, and Tommy moans at the pressure just where he needs it.

“We don’t-” Jon starts, his voice cracking, breaking off into a moan when Tommy’s hips roll against the flat of his thigh experimentally. “We don’t have to. We can wait.” 

Tommy’s heart warms as he looks at Favs, eyes blown wide, mouth parted, willing to deny himself something he’s obviously familiar with because he thinks Tommy would rather. 

“I’ve been waiting long enough, don’t you think?” Jon moans at the words and Tommy takes the opportunity to move them closer to his bed, hands working at the button of Jon’s slack as they go, fingers not obeying him as well as usual with how they’re trembling. Eventually he gets them off, pulling Jon’s briefs down with them too.

His eyes go at once to the writing on his hip, the words that he’d spoken just hours before. He pushes him back onto the bed, mouthing over the words there.

"I should say, for however concerned you were that I might be a Republican," Jon pulls a comically disgusted face at that, as though even the thought of it puts a bad tastes in his mouth, "imagine how confused I was when I learned that these were the last words of a man who died in 1776."    
  
Giggles left Tommy and he pressed his mouth into Favs' hip bone, trying to kiss the words written there but not quite managing, lips stretched too wide in a smile for the kiss to be truly successful.    
  
"What was it about them? Those words?" Jon's expression is softer now, the teasing gone from his voice, gentle curiosity taking its place.    
  
The blush that had only just started to fade comes back with a vengeance and Tommy swallows, lacing his fingers through Jon's before whispering, "They were the only ones that ever came close to making me feel the way that these ones do." Without looking, he brings their joined hands to the words on his ribcage.   
  
"My words," Favs breathes out, sounding awestruck by it.    
  
Kissing the disbelief out of his expression, Tommy meets his eyes, agrees, "Your words."

The softness of those words, of the feelings they inspire, lingers in their kisses and touches, the heat that had been building between them settling into a warmth that spreads through Tommy’s body. This time when Jon’s fingers settle on his fly, Tommy lifts his hips up off the bed eagerly, biting his lip as he does. His thighs tremble slightly as he fights the urge to shut them, but he doesn’t let himself do it, doesn’t cover himself from Jon’s gaze. 

"Jesus, your cock is nice," Favs groans, staring down at him. He licks his lips and then ducks his head, taking Tommy deep. A choked cry escapes him and Jon looks up for confirmation that it's okay to continue and it's the most erotic thing he's ever seen, his mouth stretched obscenely around his cock, pretty pink lips spit-slick already.   
  
Tommy's eyes flutter shut from the pleasure, unable to feel Jon's mouth around him, hot and wet and perfect, and watch him suck him off without bursting. His lips stretching wide around his cock is the most erotic thing Tommy’s ever seen and he can’t stop seeing it, even with his eyes closed. He opens them again and Jon has a smirk in his expression that sends a fire through Tommy’s body. Too soon, he can feel himself near the edge and he reaches down, can't find purchase in Jon's closely shaved buzzcut so he pushes at his shoulders, hoping he gets it.    
  
A smug expression twists at Jon's lips, redder and fuller than they were before, and Tommy pulls him up into another kiss, whimpering when he realizes that the sudden bitterness in Jon's mouth is the taste of him. The heat of Jon’s body on top of him is intoxicating and Tommy lets his head spin, lets Jon take and take and take as they kiss, willingly giving him more. 

When the kiss breaks, Tommy moves his hands down Favs’ chest, biting his lip before he wraps his hand around his cock. The angle is awkward, different from what he's used to when he touches himself. He hesitantly meets Jon’s eyes, trying to judge if it's good, if he likes it. 

“Is this…” Tommy trails off, blush fierce on his face, not sure how to ask if he's doing it right. Seeming to understand, omg Jon’s hands comes to rest over Tommy’s on his cock, turning his wrist to make the angle easier, the slide smoother. 

“Oh,” Tommy says, flusterment obvious. Jon kisses him sweetly and it settles warmly in his chest, making him more comfortable. 

After not too long, Jon looks down at him, licks his lips, breathes out, “May I?”

In lieu of responding verbally, Tommy simply spreads his legs open beneath him, a clear invitation. “Anything,” Tommy says breathlessly. “Anything.” 

“Oh,  _ fuck,  _ Tommy,” Jon’s voice comes out as a whine, eyes wide as he drinks in the sight of him like this. He has to resist the urge to shut his legs again, to cover himself as Jon keeps staring, but the hunger clearly written in Jon’s hooded eyes and slightly parted lips makes it easier. 

Tommy tries to wait until he makes the next move but desperation is clawing in his chest; he wants Jon -  _ needs _ Jon - now. “Please,” he whispers, his voice gone shallow and breathless with want. 

It snaps Jon out of whatever trance he seemed to have fallen into, his eyes raising to meet Tommy’s before kissing him again, fast and fierce and sharp in a way it hasn’t been yet tonight. In a way that tells Tommy that he is feeling just as desperate as he is. “Uh,” Jon says, looking like he’s making significant effort to keep his thoughts together rather than simply flying apart, “Lube? Condoms? Do you have…” 

The question trails off as Tommy bites his lips and nods, interrupting with, “Yeah, yeah. Nightstand drawer.” 

The pack of condoms isn’t open, but the bottle of lube is, about a third gone already from the nights where Tommy had slipped a few fingers inside himself, sliding them in and out, driving himself higher and higher. His cock jumps at the memories of it and Favs moans at the sight of it, licking his lips. 

Lube covering Jon’s fingers - beautiful, thin and long and perfect - is more erotic than Tommy feels it has any right to be. He spreads his legs wider, not having the words in this moment to say how much he needs this. The first brush of his finger against Tommy’s hole rips a gasp out of his chest and Jon freezes in place, holding still the constant pressure there until Tommy nods, encourages him to keep going. 

“Different when it’s someone else,” he breathes, marvelling at just how distinct it is to have Jon’s fingers inside him. The angle is better like this and he has to shut his eyes against the onslaught of sensation as Favs pushes a second finger in and rubs over his prostate in one movement. Tommy is pretty sure the noises coming out of his mouth would embarrass him if he could hear them, but all he has in his ears is the rush of his pulse and the soothing things Jon is whispering to him that he only catches snippets of but absolutely adores -  _ so good, so hot, so tight for me babe _ \- and the burning in his chest at the praise drives out any room for embarrassment. 

Tommy’s hands find purchase on Jon’s back, fingers curling and uncurling in time with his hips pressing down for more and it takes him a moment to realize that the fingers inside him have stilled. With considerable effort, he opens his eyes to meet Jon’s, seeing amusement and fondness in them. “I don’t know what you said,” he admits, when it becomes obvious that Favs is waiting for answer.

“I asked if you were ready.” His voice is soft but the question still hits Tommy square in the chest. He’s been waiting this long, so long. Is he?

_ Is he? Is he? Is he? _

“Yeah,” Tommy breathes out, smiling to reassure Jon that he mean it. “Yeah, I’m ready. I - I want you inside me.” The last bit is said with his eyes shut tight, not able to look at Favs when he says it for how true it is.

Foil crinkles and the fingers inside of Tommy slip out and he whines - he heard that one, high and needy, and yeah, he’s embarrassed, he knew he would be - but then Jon’s cock is pressing against him and inside him and Tommy has never been so full in his life, tensing and relaxing and tensing and relaxing as Jon presses inexorably forward, inch by inch until he’s bottomed out, fully seated inside Tommy.

Breathing feels difficult, like air doesn’t exist anymore, like nothing exists in the world but Jon and Jon on top of him and Jon inside of him. Tommy feels trembling and realizes that it’s both his fingers and Jon trying so hard to keep still, waiting for his word.

“You can move,” he says, and there must be air after all because it leaves Tommy in a rush at Jon’s first thrust. It’s slow but the sensation of it sends sparks through his body, coursing through his veins. The steady rocking of their bodies together feels like an endless paradise, stretching on and on as the heat between them builds higher and higher.

Tommy’s hand leaves its place on Jon’s shoulder to wrap around his cock, hard and leaking against his chest, but before he can start to jerk himself off, Jon’s hand stops his with a gentle tap. “Let me,” he says, and when Tommy nods, Jon grabs his hand, presses a kiss to his knuckles before planting it back on the bed, an unspoken request not to touch himself anymore. 

It takes a few moments before Jon manages to get the balance of jerking Tommy off and thrusting into him just right. Soon enough, though, it falls into place and Tommy feels mindless, hips moving in little abortive thrusts, his body unable to decide if he wants to push forward into Jon’s hand or back further onto his cock. “Please,” he moans, tucking his face into the crook of his neck, tension coiling in his gut.

“Yeah, Tommy, do it,” Favs encourages. “Let go for me.”

It doesn’t take much more - a flick of Jon’s wrist, a bite against his lips - and Tommy shatters, his mind going blank with the pleasure of it, vision whiting out.

His awareness returns as Favs is pulling out of him and Tommy pouts at the loss. “You can - you can finish,” he offers, but Jon shakes his head, a hand coming up to press on his chest, pushing him back down onto the bed. 

“God, this is -” His voice, no longer even now but hoarse, gravelly with want breaks off on a moan, his eyes darting to different parts of Tommy - his eyes, his lips, his chest now covered in his own come, his spent cock twitching near his thigh - as though he doesn’t quite know what to look at, as though he’s trying to soak in all of it. “Seeing you like this is enough.”

Jon comes with his eyes screwed shut tight, his mouth hanging open in a silent moan. Tommy presses kisses to his face, letting his weight settle on top of him again, sunlight just beginning to filter in through his blinds, strips of light making Jon look even more striking.

A thought occurs to him.

“My alarm goes off at 5:30. How much time do we have to sleep?”

From the look on Jon’s face when he sees the clock, the answer won’t be nearly as long as Tommy would hope. 

“Twenty minutes?” Jon’s voice starts out sheepish, but ends up amused, laughter filtering through it. He looks over at him with that same delight in his eyes and Tommy’s breath catches in his throat.

He doesn’t have any words for exactly what this night meant, for how good it was, for how he feels so different and exactly the same all at once. Instead, he says, “With how often I hear him talk, you’d think that I might have guessed Obama’s speechwriter well before now.”

Tommy can feel Jon’s shoulders shake with how hard he’s laughing and he can’t help but laugh along, giddiness rising in his chest. The places where their bodies touch are warm, almost too warm, but Tommy wouldn’t have it any other way. Jon’s lips brush his forehead when they’ve both fallen quiet again and he can feel his heart skip in his chest at the intimacy of the gesture. After all they’ve done tonight, that is what rocks him. 

He doesn't exactly know Jon Favreau, not yet anyway, but whatever fabric weaves through his soul, it is the same as Tommy's. He doesn't know him, but he loves him already. Loves him completely.

* * *

He learns the little things about Favs and loves them all; he learns how he takes his coffee ("two cream two sugar, like a medium regular from Dunkin'"), how he dresses (right leg first, button up rather than down), and his favorite TV show (The West Wing, "it's like the politics version of chicken soup for your soul"). 

He learns the big things too and loves them all: his optimism, his idealism, his determination. Jon talks and Tommy can feel the words he’s saying down to his soul. It feels so much like a revelation to learn the ins and outs of someone who is so like him in so many ways, but so different too. Jon captures a room almost effortlessly with his pull, is beautiful and charming and golden.

Tommy swears that sometimes Jon looks at him that way too. 

They stay up late - later than they should, later than the campaign requires - talking about the America that they see when they close their eyes. They wake up tired, so tired, the next morning but the exhaustion seems worth it when Tommy thinks about all the things he knows now that he didn’t before. Their routines fall into place easily: coffee and showers and dressing and out the door like a perfectly choreographed dance.   
  
Their lives slot effortlessly into each other's until Tommy doesn't know quite what he was doing when he didn't have Jon by his side.

They share a cubicle whenever they're at the Senate office, sharing each other's space effortlessly. Campaigns are an endless source of stress and not enough reassurance. Each step feels like it’s being taken in the dark, no matter how much research and work he puts in. 

Tommy frets over what to say to the press, how to apologize for what he's already said to the press, and how not to seem testy when he's running on not enough sleep and he's being forced to read the stupidest question he's seen today. Sometimes, he reads his initial responses out loud to Jon, gets them off his chest and makes him laugh all at once. He types out vicious replies and then deletes them, sending back a much more pleasant response than he wants to. 

Sometimes, he doesn’t have the energy for all that, drained and too worried about not doing enough.   
  
In those moments, he shuts his eyes, lets the sound of Favs muttering under his breath as he works on the latest stump speech soothe his nerves. It's cute, the way Jon will repeat the same unfinished sentence to himself in different voices, as though hearing it in a higher or lower pitch or spoken incredibly fast or ridiculously slow might tell him the words he's missing that will make it all click together.   
  
The first time Tommy had offered up a word, suggesting what he'd thought he was looking for, Favs had looked at him like he'd descended from the heavens and Tommy had kissed him there in the office, unable to resist the adoration on his face. They usually try their best to keep this out of work, not wanting to lose focus, to lose steam, but with the way their hands brush when they pass files and with the smiles they share, Tommy is sure that their relationship is nothing close to a secret.

They keep their hands to themselves when the Senator is in, both of them working their hardest - not that they don’t every day, of course, but on these days, it’s especially important to appear so. He and Jon are young, eager to please, eager to make their mark on this campaign and on the world. Tommy feels his chest swell with pride when Obama gives him the responsibility of the Iowa caucus. It’s the culmination of so much that he’s been working on as they’ve all criss-crossed the country together. 

He loves the work, loves the campaign, loves the Senator. 

* * *

He hates Iowa. 

The work is good, yes. The work is important and exciting and exhausting.

But it’s in Iowa.

Campaign headquarters are in Chicago. Chicago has nightlife and excitement, has his friends and his apartment.

Iowa has none of that. And Iowa also doesn’t have Jon.

It’s an odd period of adjustment when he first arrives, trying to figure out exactly what he did on his own for so long. Tommy hasn’t been with Favs for too long now, just a few months, but his routines have already shifted around him, weaving their lives closer together to the point that Tommy has to stop and think about when to set his alarm. How much time he does he need to get out of bed in the morning if he isn’t going to be distracted kissing Jon? How much time does breakfast take if he isn’t also forcing Favs to eat something too? How long to put an outfit together if he isn’t considering that he wants to look good for him?

They talk all the time. Jon sends him little snippets of of daily life from HQ, texts him about mundane details and gossip and jokes. He never lets him feel like he’s falling behind on what’s happening in Chicago. It’s a strange feeling, missing Favs so acutely when his voice is in his ear almost every night.

But he isn’t there when Tommy wakes up and he isn’t there when he gets to work and he isn’t there, isn’t there, isn’t there. After months by his side, having only his voice doesn’t feel like enough.

He misses seeing his gap-toothed smile, misses hearing him humming in the shower. He misses touching him. Tommy’s been away long enough that he doesn’t blush to think it anymore. Telling Jon that earns him a harsh intake of breath down the line, a groan like Tommy is killing him. Sheets rustle on both ends of the line, breaths getting shallower as they work themselves up.

With his eyes closed, it almost feels like enough to do this with Jon’s voice in his ear. He’s so close to coming he aches with it, opens his mouth to tell him so but gets cut off before he even starts. “When you come back, Tom, you should fuck me. I keep - god, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

The hand on Tommy’s dick stops moving as he breathes through that, chokes out, “I haven’t-” 

It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it. Certainly he has. Numerous times, even before he left and certainly since he’s been away. But - he never has before. He doesn’t want to be - he doesn’t want to be less than perfect for him. Doesn’t want to let Jon down. A whine escapes Tommy at the thought of it.

Jon understands, of course he does, "I know, babe, I know. But you like - you do like to feel useful, to feel needed. I'm gonna - maybe I'll tie your hands down, huh? Make you feel good, remind you how good you are. And I can have you that way, ride your dick just the way I like it. That'll be good. It'll be so good, Tommy, fuck."

Tommy comes before he processes how close to the edge those words had brought him, gasping for air as he spills over his hand, onto his chest. The silence on the other end of the line tells Tommy that Jon is coming and he can see it perfectly in his mind’s eye: Favs, with his head tipped back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent moan, eyes shut.

The silence lasts between them for a while longer, comfortable and warm, each of them floating back to themselves slowly.

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees, picking the thread back up, “that’ll - that’ll be good.” He can’t wait to win this caucus, to be back in Chicago. 

* * *

The caucuses are a success and Tommy is exhilarated. It’s everything and more that they could have hoped for. The nation truly turns their attention to this campaign for the first time and Obama talks about hope and change and Tommy is beginning to be able to figure out what words are Jon’s and which are the Senator’s and it takes his breath away

He has a photo taken of him in a silly red track suit, running like hell across the caucus floor and he laughs and sends it to Favs. The victory here makes missing him worth it, but he still itches to get back to Chicago.

His flight isn’t scheduled until late in the evening, but he ends up at the airport with too much time to kill. Tommy always worries about being late and ends up being far too early. The earlier flight hasn’t even left yet he manages to get on that flight instead. Blackberry in hand, he types up an update to Favs, deletes it before he sends it. It’ll be a surprise, he decides, a bubbly feeling feeling growing in his chest now that seeing Jon again isn't just some far off prospect. It's here, it's tonight. Finally.

The plane ride feels almost excruciatingly long even though they're practically beginning the descent as soon as they take off. Tommy feels like he's vibrating out of his skin, is out of his seat and off the plane as soon as he can be. 

He debates between going home or to the office. No one is expecting him today, no one would think twice about him heading to his apartment and getting some much needed rest.

He goes to the office because that is where Jon is.

Tommy is sure he’s the worst passenger this cab driver has ever had, swinging wildly between complete silence, leg bouncing up and down in anticipation, and being entirely unable to shut up, prattling on about technical details of politics that don’t matter to anyone outside of campaign staff in Iowa but that Tommy has internalized now, could recite in his sleep. Traffic in Chicago is as shitty as it always is and he thinks that the cabbie is probably just as happy to be have him out of his cab and Tommy is to get out.

He waves to a few of the people he recognizes, but makes a show of being in a rush so that no one tries to talk to him, to catch up. 

He moves to round the corner to where the desk he shares with Jon is when he hears his voice, low enough that he probably hadn’t meant to be overheard but he’s terrible at whispering so certainly loud enough to make out.

"I appreciate the concern," Favs says, in a tone that quite clearly conveys that he in no way appreciates whatever comment had been made to him, cold steel running through his usually open, affable demeanor.   
  
Even more startling about that is the fact that Jon is talking to  _ Dan _ , someone Tommy knows he looks up to, respects.    
  
"Kid, I'm just trying to say that I've seen this happen on campaigns before. And it's a whirlwind and it's fun but-"   
  
Favs cuts him off before he can finish, "It isn't like that." The words come out as a rush, passionate and vehement, any trace of the prior coldness gone. It isn't Jon's style, to stay mad like that. Sure enough, the expression on his face softens and Tommy can't stop the smile that creeps across his lips as Jon tells Dan, "Tommy and I - we're good."   
  
Dan doesn't respond and Tommy can't see his face, but he must be trying to figure out the best way to say what he's already decided he'd say. "But are you - You know how Tommy can be."   
  
The tone isn't harsh or judgmental or snide, in fact it's almost fond, but the words lodge in Tommy's chest, heart in his throat. He knows all too well how he can be - dickish and anxious and fraught and so many other things, too many other things - and Tommy wonders what it is exactly that Dan means this time.   
  
But Jon is staring blankly at Dan for a second, as though not processing it. "Perfect?" He asks, tone both conveying that he is confused and daring Dan to say otherwise.   
  
"Intense," Dan replies, though he sounds gratified by Favs' answer. Tommy thinks it through, thinks that maybe that's one of the better faults he has. He's okay with that one. "When he's decided that he's committed to something, or someone, he dedicates himself to it." A pause. "The longest I've seen you with someone before him was a week. I'm just worried. I don't want to see either of you boys hurt."   
  
Jon's hand has come up to the back of his neck, rubbing at it in the nervous way he gets when someone he admires might be telling him that he did something wrong. "No," he says, looking down at his shoes. "No, this is - this is real."   
  
Dan is quiet a second after but then says, emphatic and sincere, "Good." He laughs at the look of surprise on Jon's face and continues, "That's what I was hoping to hear, kiddo."   
  
They move on, the conversation winding down with chatter about certain polls and caucus turnout versus primary turnout and some revisions to a speech Jon is worrying but Tommy doesn't hear it.    
  
He's thinking about how defensive Jon had been to have their relationship questioned, how he'd been confused as to what could possibly be wrong with Tommy - as though Tommy didn't have a whole list in his head, ready made insults about himself - how he'd said that he was perfect. He's thinking about how Jon hadn't told Dan about their marks, about having each other's words written on their bodies. It would've stopped the questions there, but Jon didn't do that, instead chose to say only that it was real, but with enough emotion suffused through it that there was no mistaking the feelings behind it.   
  
Tommy thinks about it until he has Jon's lips on his own and he startles back, hadn't seen him coming because he was so lost in thought. The next kiss is better, sweet and soft with just a promise of more under the surface.   
  
"How much did you hear?" Jon asks, and Tommy kisses him again before replying, "Enough."   
  
The objection on his lips dies when Tommy kisses him again, lips trailing across his jaw to his ear. "Most of it," he admits. Taking a deep breath, he whispers, lips so close they brush skin as he says the words, "I love you too."    
  
It's bold, Tommy thinks, to take all of the things Jon has said to mean that he loves him. But he knows that he's right. He can see it in softening of his face when he looks at him, can hear it in the voice he uses - adoring, fond, intimate - only for Tommy, can feel it in the way their fingers brush over pieces of paper, over coffee cups, over each other.    
  
It's bold, but it’s not too bold. 

There’s awe on Jon’s face, eyes wide and lips hanging slightly open, and he nods, pulling Tommy back into another kiss, frantic and hot and wild. Only the distant sound of footsteps against tile cause them to pull back, Tommy sheepishly taking his hands out from where they’d snuck under Jon’s shirt. Looking around the room quickly, they giggle at forgetting that they’re in the office where anyone can see them, where the Senator can see them. When it’s obvious they’re still alone, Tommy can see that tension seep out of Favs.

“I, uh, I actually don’t have any work to do here today,” Tommy admits, a blush beginning to creep up his cheeks. “I just wanted to see you. So I - I’ll let you get back to work. See you at home.”

It still blows his mind that he can say that, that he has someone to go home to, who comes home to him. Waiting at the apartment, though, feels longer than he thought it would. He unpacks, starts his laundry, turns on CNN. Before too long though, he’s put it on mute, wanders around looking for something to do. He cleans the bathroom and then showers, vacuums the carpet in the main area even though he knows it will never truly look clean. Too many college-aged bros coming and going for that to ever be possible. 

He checks the fridge, thinking that maybe he’ll put together a grocery list of what they’ll need, but he finds it curiously full. Favs can cook pretty well when he wants to, but he often doesn’t, tired and not willing to go through the effort after a long day in the office so he tends to get pre-made freezer meals when he does the grocery shopping. Tommy had expected to find the fridge emptier than when he left. 

The front door opens and Jon walks in, earlier than expected. At Tommy’s quizzical expression, he says, “Axe told me that my ‘obvious restlessness’ and my ‘overeager time checks’ were annoying him, so he sent me home. I think he just noticed that I wasn’t really getting anything done and took pity on me.”

His eyes flick from Tommy to the fridge and a rare pinkness works its way up Jon’s cheeks and he says, “I went out last night to pick up food. I was gonna make you dinner as a welcome back home but… you beat me back here.”

Tommy is sure that his face is doing something embarrassingly dopey but Favs was going to cook for him. He planned a whole meal and went shopping in advance and blushed when he said so. “It can be a surprise tomorrow,” Tommy offers, both teasing and serious, “I’m sure something can come up that will delay me at the office long enough.”   
“You don’t just want me to do it now?” Jon asks, but he’s taking steps forward, crossing the room to Tommy, a knowing look in his eyes, perfectly aware of what his answer will be and why. His hands find his hips and Tommy’s come up to cup his jaw and curl around the back of his neck.

“No,” he answers plainly, stopping the reply from Favs with a kiss, all the pent up longing and hunger and loneliness from when he was away. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Jon’s voice already sounds wrecked, his eyes dancing across all of Tommy like they had that first night, when he just needed to see as much as possible. He takes a shaky breath and says, “I love you too,” the shining in his eyes making it obvious just how much he means it. 

He can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest and Tommy smiles softly and says, “I know.” 

This kiss is softer, sweeter. The rush, the urgency from earlier is gone. Tommy’s home.

* * *

The campaign only picks up more and more steam. They scrape out a victory in Nevada and then again in South Carolina. Alabama and Georgia and Minnesota. It needles at Tommy that they don’t win Massachusetts despite the Kennedy endorsements and he and Favs grumble to themselves about it, but the campaign keeps moving, keeps succeeding. 

Week after week, their belief holds true and Favs finally pulls back up the document he’d been working on that night they first met. The words seem to pour out of him some nights and Tommy marvels at the way his brain works, at how he can so clearly encapsulate a feeling in writing, at the way he can make other people feel it too. Jon whispers the words into his ear, into his skin, both of them riding the high of victory. 

No matter how many times Jon writes and rewrites this speech, all of the edits from the Senator and Axe, the quote written across Tommy’s ribs stays. The universe and the country and the campaign working in tandem to get them all here. 

The campaign runs ahead, every single staffer doing the math, waiting with bated breath seemingly every Tuesday, and then doing the math again. 

Spring comes and goes and Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever been so tired in his life, doesn’t think that he could have ever fathomed that this level of exhaustion is possible. He and Favs work and come home and they don’t get enough sleep and they do it all again the next day. Different cities, different states, different hotels. But there’s hope bubbling up in all of their chests as the days get warmer and the delegate count goes up and so does the popular vote. 

There’s barely any time to breathe but it really, truly feels that maybe this thing is really going to happen. The primaries aren’t even over - Hillary’s campaign hasn’t even conceded yet, still fighting - but Tommy is letting himself think about the next step, think about the White House. 

June comes around and they’ve done it and Tommy and Favs jerk each other off in a closet in St. Paul as the Senator declares that he will be the nominee for President. Jon looks wild with it, with hearing the speech he’d written for this, the very best of outcomes, in the Senator’s voice. Looks wild at the applause that Obama gets when he walks into the packed stadium room. 

Tommy’s not sure he looks any more composed, panting and flushed and overcome in some random closet in Minnesota, listening to proof that everything he’s done for this campaign has paid off.

The Clinton campaign endorses Obama a few days later, throws their support behind him. Tommy had expected to feel much more viciously satisfied - God, he hates that campaign, has never hated a group of people more in his life - but he finds that it isn't there anymore. All the competitiveness and all the rhetoric doesn't seem to matter now that they've reached this point. In fact, now that Obama has the nomination, it's easier to see Clinton’s appeal.

July passes in a haze that manages to seem as though they had finally put all the stress of the primaries behind them so that now they can focus on the real stress: running a Presidential campaign. Tommy feels as though he never sees Jon. The cubicle they share is almost always empty. Jon is fine-tuning the speech for the DNC and Tommy is back doing what he’d been doing at the beginning of it all: research and press and research about the press. But this time it is not for a single primary, it isn’t just about Iowa. 

This is about the country. 

Obama is going to be running for President.

It hits Tommy in the chest a few times every day. 

Jon pins him to the bed one morning, a bright sparkle to his eye, and Tommy shuts off his alarm, sinks back into the sheets, into Jon’s touch. They’ll be late but Tommy doesn’t spare a thought for it, not when he could think about the way that Jon feels pressed up hard against his hip, about the way sweat pools in the divot of his collarbone, how he sounds when Tommy leaves a bite mark there. He doesn’t think about anything but Jon as their bodies roll in time. It’s warm and familiar now, but it doesn’t stop sending a thrill down his spine each time. Tommy doesn’t think it ever will, and then he’s coming, a moan torn out of his chest, and he isn’t thinking about anything at all.

Jon can make his brain be quiet for a minute and Tommy leaves a trail of kisses across his jaw in thanks.

They are late, but not by too much. Their hands brush as they walk past each other and they sit down together for lunch. Favs lights up when he talks about how the speech is coming along and when they both have to go back to work, he brushes his hand along Tommy’s ribcage.

* * *

August comes. The campaign and what seems like every Democrat in the country have made their way to Denver for the convention. Tommy gives statements to reporters and doesn’t tell them once that any of their questions are awful, even when they are. He’s proud of that. He still feels like a kid, like he’s fumbling his way through this campaign and now that they’re here, everyone is going to find out just how unqualified he is.

Jon holds him at night, hands running through his hair, lips pressed against his neck, and tells him that it isn’t true. He talks about what they’re going to do once they get to the White House, the life they’re going to have.

“At least one dog,” Jon says, eyes shut like he can see it all in his mind perfectly. Tommy stares at him with wonder written across his face as he continues, “So we’ll have to find a place that accepts pets. What breed, do you think?”

Tommy has to swallow back how emotional he is before he responds with, “A doodle.” He can see it too, him and Jon walking their dog around U Street, maybe even bringing it to the White House sometimes. Going to work together in the morning and leaving together at night.

Changing the world together. Making this country into the best version of itself that it can be together. 

* * *

"That's the promise of America," Obama intones, standing right in the middle of the stage, his voice reciting words that Tommy knows by heart, feels in his heart.    
  
He looks to his left to see Jon already looking up at him, eyes misty as he mouths along with the words the Senator is saying, adoration plain on his face.   
  
He takes Tommy's hand, fingers intertwined, and they both look back out at on stage, at the Democratic Nominee for President.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me yelling about these boys on tumblr at tvietor08


End file.
